


The World Turned Inwards

by midnightdiddle (gooseberry)



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Age Difference, Brothers, Coming of Age, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-13
Updated: 2008-06-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 04:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12697710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/midnightdiddle
Summary: Wolfram is nearly sixty and growing fast.  His limbs are growing long, turning slender, and when he turns, there is a line to his shoulders and waist that, a decade ago, was not there.  At near sixty, Wolfram’s not an adult, but he’s no longer a child, and poised on this threshold, the court finds him beautiful.Out of them all, Wolfram is the only brother that looks like their mother, and he’s the only brother who feels like their mother, fragile and love-hungry, desperate for some kind of caress.  His kisses turn from the boyish presses of twenty years ago, and turn to something that, with Wolfram near sixty, makes Gwendal fear.  He watches Wolfram turn within the court, the eyes of men and women upon the lines of Wolfram’s throat, and fears should Wolfram fall.--Pre-series.  When Wolfram turns sixty, the world turns to watch the Demon Nation's youngest prince.Prompt: June 12 - - Kyou Kara Maou, Gwendal/Wolfram: Age differences, gentleness - “only I know the real you beneath that mask of coldness”





	The World Turned Inwards

Wolfram is nearly sixty and growing fast. His limbs are growing long, turning slender, and when he turns, there is a line to his shoulders and waist that, a decade ago, was not there. At near sixty, Wolfram’s not an adult, but he’s no longer a child, and poised on this threshold, the court finds him beautiful.

Out of them all, Wolfram is the only brother that looks like their mother, and he’s the only brother who feels like their mother, fragile and love-hungry, desperate for some kind of caress. His kisses turn from the boyish presses of twenty years ago, and turn to something that, with Wolfram near sixty, makes Gwendal fear. He watches Wolfram turn within the court, the eyes of men and women upon the lines of Wolfram’s throat, and fears should Wolfram fall.

The kingdom itself is readying itself to fall, Stoffel having taken their mother’s throne in all but name. He, foolish and proud, curses the humans, and the threat of war catches the attention of nearly everyone. Conrart steps further away, human eyes looking out of a demon face, and their mother hides behind her brother and her lovers. Gwendal takes more to his papers, running what he can salvage of his mother’s kingdom, and turned way, he misses the beginning of Wolfram’s fall.

Wolfram’s limbs are grown long and slender, and they wrap about the necks of the soldiers who gather in the castle courtyard. Wolfram’s hips are thin, resting against the walls of the hallways, and when Gwendal catches him in his fall, a soldier’s hands are upon Wolfram’s hips. Gwendal grabs the soldier’s arms, pulls him away from Wolfram, and spinning him around, punches him. It’s low, crass, even, but Gwendal can still see the way Wolfram’s face had been turned up for a stranger’s kiss, and so he punches the soldier again. He punches the soldier a third time, and the soldier crumples to the ground, mouth wet with blood. Wolfram makes a sound, high-pitched and breaking, and Gwendal reaches out, pulling Wolfram tightly to himself.

“Brother,” Wolfram says, “you’re hurting me.” His head barely reaches Gwendal’s mid-chest, and he’s small, pressed against Gwendal’s side. Gwendal had forgotten how small Wolfram was, how young, and he wonders how many months it’s been since he had last touched Wolfram.

“You’ll ruin yourself this way,” Gwendal says, and his voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. Wolfram shudders in his arms, his eyes, turned up towards Gwendal, black in the faint light. Gwendal holds him tight another moment, and when Wolfram begins to fight in his arms, he lets his hands his hands fall from Wolfram’s back. Wolfram leaves quickly, head bowed low, but he looks back once before he turns a corner, and Gwendal feels that he is doing something very wrong indeed.

In the morning, there is a bruise upon Wolfram’s face, spreading across the curve of his jaw. Their mother lifts her eyes over her teacup, and her fingers touch Wolfram’s face tenderly as she worries over him.

“I’m fine,” Wolfram says, and Gwendal wouldn’t have caught it for the lie but that Wolfram glances at him, then looks quickly away, eyes still shot the blackness of shock. Their mother clucks her tongue over Wolfram, and when Stoffel comes, she leaves with a long backwards glance, looking empty beside her brother.

“Wolfram,” Gwendal says as Conrart excuses himself, guiltily human beneath Wolfram’s eyes. “Wolfram,” Gwendal says again, and Wolfram looks away from Conrart. “Where--”

There are eyes in the court, though, and they watch Wolfram’s every move, for Wolfram’s the youngest, and the most beautiful, and the easiest to make fall. The eyes are fixed on Wolfram’s throat, and so Gwendal, like all the men and all the women, looks at the hollow of Wolfram’s collarbone, and says, “Come speak with me.”

Wolfram opens Gwendal’s door quietly, and it’s strange to see Wolfram subdued, when he’s usually so furious at the world. Gwendal looks up from his desk, and waves his hand as he leans back in his chair. The bruise, when Wolfram steps closer, looks worse, particularly under the sunlight from the windows.

“Sit,” Gwendal says, and Wolfram hesitates before coming around the desk, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk in front of Gwendal. Wolfram’s feet hang, heels knocking the desk as they dangle, and he looks too small like this, too childish. Gwendal reaches out, lying his fingers along Wolfram’s jaw, and gingerly turns Wolfram’s face this way and that. The bruise is still in blues and purples, and Wolfram winces when Gwendal’s fingers press on the edges.

“It’s from training,” Wolfram says when the silence has gone on too long, and his jaw moves beneath Gwendal’s fingers, sending Gwendal’s fingers sliding down to the lines of Wolfram’s throat.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is sharper than he means it to be, and when Wolfram tenses beneath his hand, Gwendal pulls back. “Take off your shirt,” he says.

“Brother--” Wolfram is barely hesitating, though, and his love for Gwendal scares Gwendal. He wonders if Wolfram would die for him, and he wonders if he’d even have to ask, or if Wolfram would die for some want of Gwendal’s without a word spoken. Wolfram’s already pulled his cravat loose, the thin linen hanging about his neck, and his fingers (Gwendal wonders if they’re shaking, wonders _why_ they would shake) are unbuttoning his vest, pulling it from his shoulders. His shirt is thin and delicate, and Gwendal takes Wolfram’s wrists in his hands, unfastening the clasps of the cuffs. When Wolfram pulls his shirt off, there are bruises, some pale yellows and greens, others dark blues and purples, scattered across his chest and back. Gwendal lays a hand on Wolfram’s side, little finger against Wolfram’s waist.

“What,” he asks, “are you doing?” Wolfram shakes his head, looking away, and Gwendal says, “ _Wolfram_."

He presses his lips against Wolfram’s forehead, then presses the shirt into Wolfram’s hands. Wolfram dresses quickly but clumsily, fingers fumbling on the tiny buttons. His vest hangs open from his shoulders, and Gwendal takes the cravat, ties it loosely about Wolfram’s neck.

“Don’t break yourself,” Gwendal says, and Wolfram presses his face, hot and wet, in the curve of Gwendal’s neck for a moment.

x

Gwendal catches Wolfram in his fall, and watches Wolfram, obsessed. Even caught, Wolfram is still tumbling downwards, and with his hands upon Wolfram’s shoulders, Gwendal falls with him. He stands near the window of his rooms, and watches Wolfram in the yards below, and watches the way the soldiers watch Wolfram, too. The world seems to turn inwards, focusing its eyes upon the youngest prince in the breath before war.

Wolfram doesn’t yet reach the shoulders of the soldiers, but his limbs are long, and the line of his throat is like the Queen’s. He turns, nearly within the arms of the soldiers, and when Gwendal pulls him aside, there are new callouses on Wolfram’s hands, new bruises upon his skin.

“Brother,” Wolfram says when Gwendal lifts Wolfram’s hand to his lips. The callouses are rough, and Wolfram’s palm is hot beneath Gwendal’s mouth. Gwendal kisses it, as he used to kiss Wolfram’s bruises years ago. Now, though, Wolfram’s breath catches, and Gwendal can feel Wolfram’s palm grow hotter against Gwendal’s mouth.

“Why,” Gwendal asks, his lips against Wolfram’s fingers, “do you pull away?”

“It feels strange,” Wolfram says, and his voice sounds strange. He’s barely trying to pull away, though, the movements only half-hearted. Gwendal pulls him closer, the thinness of Wolfram’s body pressed against his. “You don’t touch me often--”

“We’ve done you wrong,” Gwendal says. “We should have done better by you.”

Wolfram shakes his head, turning away, and it is there, in the dusk of the stables, that Gwendal kisses Wolfram’s mouth. Wolfram is still against him, a slip of a boy, and Gwendal wonders how many men have already kissed Wolfram like so. He presses his fingers at Wolfram’s neck, and when Wolfram breathes against him, a sigh, Gwendal lets him go.

“Brother.” Wolfram turns his face up towards Gwendal’s, and Gwendal presses his thumb to Wolfram’s lower lip. He curls his hand around Wolfram’s jaw, the side of Wolfram’s neck, then kisses Wolfram once more, lightly. When he pulls away, Wolfram’s eyes are thin rings of blue around pupils of black, and Gwendal wonders if it’s from pleasure or fear or the dim light of the stables.

“I won’t do this here,” he says, but it’s hard for him to pull his hands from the heat of Wolfram’s skin, to step away from Wolfram’s body. He’d never expected this.

He’s already halfway across the courtyard when Wolfram catches up to him, boots crunching on the gravel. Wolfram touches the sleeve of Gwendal’s coat, then steps back, the world’s eyes upon them, the eldest and youngest of the demon princes. Gwendal bends his head closer, like a brother, or lover, and the sunlight is golden on Wolfram’s eyelashes.

“Where?” Wolfram asks, and he’s breathless. Gwendal wonders, if he were to touch him, if he could feel Wolfram’s heartbeat, or the nervous stutters of Wolfram’s breath and Wolfram’s limbs.

“Follow me,” he says, after a long silence, and Wolfram’s sharp movement sends the gravel scattering. He follows Gwendal, though, like he did twenty, thirty years before, when he would beg for attention, a story or a game or a moment of song, snatch of lyric. Now, though, Wolfram is two paces for every stride of Gwendal’s, instead of the three paces of the decades past.

They go down the long corridors of the castle, past windows reaching from floor to ceiling, and at times, Gwendal can feel Wolfram reach for him, then pull away. When they finally stand within Gwendal’s room, beyond the shut door, Gwendal asks him, "Why?”

“Because,” and Wolfram is small against the stones of the wall, only sixty and bruised like a flower, “you’re gentle with me.”

And when Gwendal kisses him, brother and lover and world turned inwards, there is a turn to the lines of existence.


End file.
